"Dear Mr Morris,--I write to you in strictest confidence. My father
probably has given me up for dead. I hope so. On no account must he
know that I have written to you. My object is to enclose a twenty-
five dollar note which I owe him. Once, before we quarrelled, he lent
me five pounds. I want to pay it back without any one knowing of it,
because I'm determined not to owe anything to anybody, especially to
one who has told me I'm not honest. Please put it into his bank
account. He probably will never notice it; anyhow, please, whatever
you do, don't tell him or any one alive where it came from, or that
you ever heard a word from me or of me. I trust you as a gentleman.
"Yours truly,--
"Roger Ingleton."
"Well, sir," said the banker, who had watched the reading curiously,
"does it not seem an important letter?"
"I think so. It appears to be genuine, too, on the face of it. If you
will allow me I should like my ward to see it. It will interest him."
The tutor was not wrong. With this strange missive in his hand all
Roger's yearnings towards his lost brother returned in full force. The
object of his search seemed suddenly to stand within measurable reach.
Ten years appeared nothing beside the twenty which only a few months
back had divided them. If he could but postpone his majority another
year! Then came the miserable doubt about Ratman. If, after all, his
unlikely, discredited story should prove to have a grain of truth at the
bottom of it! But he dismissed the doubt for the hope.
"Armstrong, I must go to town to find out about the `Cyclops.' Come
with me, there's a good fellow. In three weeks it will be too late."
The tutor was prepared for this decision.
"By all means," said he. "We will go to-morrow to inquire after a
passenger or sailor who was on board a sailing-vessel, nationality
unknown, which happened to be off Havana in a heavy sea on October 20,
ten years ago."
"I know it's absurd," said Roger, "but I can't help it. I never seemed
so near my brother before. I should despise myself if I sat idle here."
So it happened that, just when Maxfield was preparing in a quiet way to
celebrate the coming of age of the heir; just as the gloom which had
followed on Captain Oliphant's tragic death was beginning to lift a
little and allow Tom and Jill decorously to think of football; just as
Rosalind was beginning to make up her mind that she was not destined for
ever to teach the elements of art and science to the Vicarage children;
just when everything seemed to be settling down for the last scene of
the drama, Roger and his tutor vanished once more on their familiar
wild-goose chase.
Dr Brandram grumbled; the county gentry shook their heads; Mr
Pottinger breathed again. No one thought well of the expedition; some
went so far as to make a jest of it.
Roger cared nothing for what people thought. With Armstrong to back
him, with Rosalind to bid him a brave God-speed, with his own stout
heart to buoy him up, and with his lost brother only ten years distant,
he could afford to start in good cheer, and let the world think what it
liked.
But the cheer was destined to failure. They heard of one or two vessels
called the "Cyclops," but respecting the crew or passengers, of none of
them was it possible to glean a word of news. The vessel in question
might have been ship, schooner, or barque; she might have been English,
American, Indian, or Australian; she might have foundered, or changed
her name, or been broken up for lumber. Lloyds knew her not. West
India merchants had never heard of her. Of all their quests, this
seemed the most vague and hopeless.
Up to the last, Roger stuck doggedly to it. Even if he spent his
majority in the London docks he would not turn tail. The tutor backed
up loyally, did most of the work, made most of the inquiries, never
grumbled or gibed or protested. When Roger looked most like giving in,
it was the tutor who put fresh heart into him.
"To-morrow," said Roger on the eve of his birthday, "I will give it up.
But there is a day yet."
And sure enough, on the last day, a vague ray of light came in the shape
of a telegram from the port-master at Havana, to whom, at the tutor's
suggestion, a message of inquiry had been sent:--
"_Cyclops known. Writing_."
Writing! A letter would take weeks to come, and they had but a day!
They hurried to the telegraph-office and sent an urgent message begging
particulars by wire whatever the cost. Late that day, indeed it was
nearly midnight, the reply came:--
"_Sailed Ceylon, West Indies. Name Ingleton unknown. Ship now
here_."
Roger staggered from the office a beaten man. Through the deserted City
streets the clocks were booming the hour of midnight and ushering in his
majority. His brother! All along he had persuaded himself this quest
was to end in victory, that before now he should have met his brother
face to face and given him what was his. To-day it was no longer his to
give. The race was already over, and the clock had won. His brother
was not there.
"Take my arm, dear old fellow," said Mr Armstrong, "and cheer up."